


tell the shades apart (my world is black and white)

by ScribeOfRED



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Animal Death, Compulsive lying, Gen, Horseback Riding, Horses, Magic-Users, Minor Character Death, oneshots functioning as a story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2020-10-25 12:36:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20724314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeOfRED/pseuds/ScribeOfRED
Summary: Being made of magic has consequences, some more serious than others.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many years ago I wrote a massive outline for what was going to be an even more massive rewrite of the tragedy that was season five. The scattered scenes that I wrote for it have languished long enough, so I'm releasing them to the world. If any plot-related questions arise, I'll happily answer them; otherwise, enjoy.

Merlin is six when a falcon that’s nearly half his height lands on the fallen tree several dozen paces from where he’s picking flowers for his mother and gives a low, pained cry. Merlin’s hand stills around the stem of the daffodil as his magic shifts without prompting, reaching out toward a magic that’s similar but fading.

It’s the bird. The bird has magic, and the bird is dying.

Daffodils tumble into the dirt as Merlin races toward the falcon, unsure why he’s moving toward a bird that he’s seen rip small animals apart, but he _must_ get to it, must help it, must save it.

He can save it. He knows he can.

The falcon ruffles its feathers as he approaches, and he skids to an ungraceful stop—he won’t be able to help it if he scares it away.

“I won’t hurt you,” he tells it in a soft voice, and the falcon understands him, he knows it does, because the bird’s magic is reaching out to his once more, warm tendrils that smell of a rain-cleansed sky and taste of crunchy rodents and feel like feathers that are silkier than Mother’s fancy shawl, the one she pulls out for a single day each year in the spring.

But the bird’s magic is weakening, slipping away from his even as it beckons him closer with a mournful, wavering note that burrows into his own magic and settles there with a dull ache. He doesn’t entertain the idea of ignoring the bird’s pleas—he knows he can’t, same as he knows he can’t stop existing.

The falcon’s eyes, black and gold and wise and many, many years older than him, watch him without blinking as he lifts shaking fingers to its head, level with his own, before it dips its head to nudge against his palm. The feathers are softer than he imagined—even softer than Mother’s shawl.

The bird nuzzles harder, and he giggles. “That tickles,” he says, running his hand across the dark head and down the compact body. He’s only ever felt dead birds before, and this is nothing like those stiff, cold bodies: there is power and grace and wisdom in every inch of this being, and, and, and...

He brushes his fingers against his cheek and pulls them away to stare at the glistening tips. Why is he crying?

Séaghdha, because of course that’s its name, gives another soft cry, almost a coo, and Merlin knows why. He wraps both arms around the downy body and lifts. Talons scrape and catch against the rough bark, but Séaghdha doesn’t struggle as Merlin holds the strong but fragile body to his chest and sinks back against the tree.

“Don’t go,” he whispers to the bird now cradled in his lap. Séaghdha’s chest heaves with each breath, but his eyes aren’t rolling and he’s not trying to get away—their magic is linked now, and Merlin can feel the weakening heartbeat as though it’s in his own chest; the fight for every single breath grows harder.

Magic gathers in his hand, and he can hear Mother cautioning him to never use his magic anywhere others might see him, but surely the life of such a majestic creature is worth the risk, so he places his hands over the deep hole, then flinches as more blood pushes up against his fingers, warm and sticky.

“Yuck,” he whispers. He watches blood well around his fingers, as though it’s trying to drown his hands, and he realizes he doesn’t know what to do. The only time he’s ever healed before was two seasons ago when Mother lost her balance while cooking and her hand landed in the fire, and he still has no idea what he did—he only remembers blistering heat, stinky fear, and stomach-twisting screams because he dreams of nothing else now.

His tongue tastes awful, more bitter than Mother’s fever tonics, and he’s shaking so hard that Séaghdha chirps sharply and pokes him with his beak, not hard enough to break the skin, but it still hurts.

He must do something. Closing his eyes always helps him focus, so he does. Instantly, the solution becomes clear. Why didn’t he think of it before?

He gathers the magic in his hand and then _pushes_ it into the wound... and the blood stops. It stops! He whoops with joy, almost throwing his hands in the air in excitement before remembering that’s not a good idea.

“I did it!” he exclaims, grinning down at Séaghdha, who’s slowly turning his head to peer at him from one eye, and Merlin’s joy shatters upon witnessing the pain and exhaustion in its gold-flecked depths.

“Please, no,” he whispers. “You can’t die. I can save you. I will!” Magic gushes from his fingers, from his heart, and it’s flooding the wound, spilling over the torn edges and soaking into the bloodstained feathers, but _it__’s not working_. Séaghdha’s magic isn’t responding, isn’t reaching for his, and he can’t see through the tears because the connection is _lost forever—_

He gasps as magic—Séaghdha’s magic, cool and free and wild—curls around his own in what feels like a hug but isn’t the same as Mother’s hugs: it goes deeper, soothing his mind and heart with what feels like the spray of the sea. It twines itself inside him, blowing a soft _thank you_ that resonates across the very essence of his magic, and then it lets go, slipping away into the wind.

“Goodbye,” Merlin whispers, closing his eyes as he senses the magic return to the land around them. Grief still lingers around his heart, raw and heavy, but the thought of trying to bear it isn’t as overwhelming as it was a minute ago.

As he clutches the bloody, now-still corpse to his chest, he gradually becomes aware of more magic around him. The trees, the leaves that are falling to the ground, the flowers that he picked, the pair of chipmunks that have stopped their nut gathering to watch him—they all pulse with magic, so bright the clearing is nearly glowing. He breathes deep as the humming gold washes over him, cradling him, whispering _look, we__’re still alive, we’re still here, magic will always be here with you_.

He stands, slowly. Séaghdha’s body seems heavier than before, and he allows a few more tears to run down his cheeks before blinking the rest away. He must find somewhere to lay Séaghdha’s body to rest, but he doesn’t want to bury him. It’s wrong to force a creature that spent its whole life in the sky into the ground, especially now that it doesn’t have any say in the matter.

The river, he decides. The other boys would claim the lake is more appropriate—he’s heard their tales of great kings being set afloat in ornately decorated boats after they’ve fallen in battle; a true hero’s reward—but he knows the river is where Séaghdha would want his body put, and so that’s where he’ll take him.

It is the first time he eases the passing of a mortally wounded being, but it’s far from the last.


	2. Chapter 2

Merlin’s never told Gaius that he woke up every morning of his first month in Camelot on the cusp of leaving the city, never to return.

Destiny be damned.

If he hadn’t met Arthur within a day of arriving in Camelot, he _knows_ he wouldn’t have stayed because Uther ordered five people burned to death in his first two weeks in the city on the charge of practicing sorcery, and Merlin learned the hard way that natural deaths and executions _are not_ the same.

The headaches from when he was eight and the rekindling of the Great Purge return, and although pain is relative, he’s certain these are worse.

“_You__’re betraying your own kind, Emrys! Traitor! Traitor! Traitor! _Traitor!”

The shriek pummels his mind until the last dregs of life are burned from the charred body lashed to the stake in the middle of the courtyard, and Merlin staggers, almost pitching forward into Arthur’s back when it cuts off with a finality that will never be reversed, leaving his head pounding and his heart empty with a grief that cannot be fathomed.

The amount of magic that is released from the unfortunate man and wends its way toward Merlin to blend with his own isn’t enough to fill his cupped palm.

Agony fills Merlin’s chest, and his magic responds, flaring outward in an invisible wave that extinguishes every fire in the courtyard, starting with the torches born by Uther’s guards and ending with the raging bonfire.

Silence slams against the stone ground and walls with such abrupt violence that Merlin can feel the echo in his blood.

Not a single ember smolders in the entire courtyard. Everyone knows, because the silence is so total that a single flicker of fire _would_ be heard.

Merlin clamps a hand over his mouth and nose before he can draw attention to himself by screaming or sobbing—both options are distressingly possible—and reins in his unruly magic, hiding the glow under trembling eyelids. The torches relight.

The bonfire doesn’t.

“There’s another sorcerer!” Uther yells, and Merlin flinches, eyes flying open, terror a freezing blade against the back of his neck, because the king’s about to turn on him, the guards are going to seize him, and he will be the next ashy corpse they’ll be sweeping into the cracks between the cobblestones.

He’s so consumed by his thoughts that he almost misses Uther’s next words.

“Guards, search the square, the whole city if you have to, and bring the sorcerer to the council room.” Uther spares the crowd one last glare before he whirls around and retreats into the castle. “Arthur, you’re with me.”

Protocol demands Merlin bow his head as the king passes, but he’s not quite fast enough to avoid catching a glimpse at Uther’s face and almost can’t stop himself from cringing away from the fear and _pain_ in the king’s eyes.

Uther doesn’t look at him.

Spots dance in front of Merlin’s vision—they’re looking for someone else. _They__’re looking for someone else_. He’s still safe.

But he won’t stay safe if he doesn’t pull himself together before someone can observe him, so he sucks in a deep breath and ducks his head, then decides that makes him more suspicious, so he straightens and shuffles sideways in order to see over Arthur’s shoulder.

Guards have materialized out of nowhere and are herding the crowd into smaller groups—they’re probably easier to search that way, although Merlin doesn’t know why they’re bothering. Any sorcerer worth the magic they practice would be impossible for a bunch of palace guards to identify. Only another with magic would have a hope of finding a sorcerer.

Guilt coils around the base of his throat when the guards are too rough with a young woman and she falls, accidentally dragging down the old man next to her. Shouts rise, and more guards congregate on their position. They aren’t gentle when they yank both people to their feet.

_I caused this. This is my fault and there is nothing I can do to stop it_.

Nothing that won’t put more people in danger, and he refuses to do that.

Helpless, he’s forced to stand there and continue watching because Arthur hasn’t moved yet. Why isn’t he following Uther inside the castle? If there’s a sorcerer in the courtyard—no, wait, if they _believe_ there’s a sorcerer in the courtyard, isn’t the safety of the royal family paramount?

Arthur steps forward and motions toward the most congested section of the courtyard, which also happens to be where a handful more people have fallen. The noise level is rising again—guards shout and rumble, women shriek and wail, children pierce the air with their cries.

Why are children here in the first place? Merlin tries to suppress his gag reflex. He knows if he had been raised in Camelot his mother would never have allowed him to see something as horrible as what these children just witnessed.

Then again, she might have forced him to attend an execution to demonstrate what would have happened if he’d been caught.

He shudders, transferring his stare to the back of Arthur’s ceremonial coat as the prince continues to wave the guards around—no doubt he would be down there himself if this balcony had a staircase descending to the courtyard—and wonders how Arthur can remain this calm, this unaffected.

One of the guards, the tall one, who was positioned on the far side of the balcony approaches them. “Sire,” he says, motioning to the torn-apart people below with his torch-bearing hand, “there doesn’t appear to be any sign of the second sorcerer.”

Well, there’s no surprise, considering there _is_ no sorcerer to find, not down there, anyway, and even if there were, they’d never find them anyway. Is the entirety of Camelot clueless on the subject of magic?

“It appears you’re right,” Arthur says, voice so stiff that Merlin throws aside everything Gwen’s told him about proper royal etiquette and how servants are supposed to stay in the background, and he moves until he’s able to see Arthur’s... mask? Because that certainly isn’t a face—no living being’s expression is that cold or... _angry_?

Without shifting his body, Merlin peers deeper into Arthur’s eyes and almost returns to his supposed-rightful place behind the prince’s shoulder because Arthur’s mask is nearly perfect—it would fool most people; no one more than a few feet away would know any different—but Merlin’s always been good at reading people and he’s already realized he’s able to read Arthur easier than almost anyone he’s met, and right now Arthur is _furious_: The muscles under his jaw are a bit too tight, and his eyes, only visible in moments stolen from the guttering firelight, gleam with hate, determination, and, buried deeper than anything else, disgust.

But... what is it Arthur feels so strongly about: The fact that there _is_ a sorcerer, or the way his men are looking for the sorcerer?

“I want you down there in person, Sir Leon,” Arthur says in a low voice that doesn’t carry beyond their immediate circle. “That”—he points at what Merlin recognizes as a family that came to Gaius for a remedy for their four children’s sickness who are now being yanked apart by a group of heavy-handed guards—“is unacceptable.”

Sir Leon dips his head. “With your permission, I shall take note of those abusing their power and bring them and a report of their actions to you in the morn.”

Arthur clasps a hand to Leon’s shoulder. “Good man.” His stare lingers on the courtyard, something like yearning in his eyes; he shifts his jaw in an attempt—an unsuccessful one, Merlin notes—to relieve the tension building there.

Merlin shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Sire, we should probably join the king. You don’t want to keep him waiting—not in this mood.”

“Watch your tongue, servant,” Arthur snaps. Merlin could get offended at his tone, but if he’s learned anything these last few weeks, it’s that Arthur hides any emotions he’s not comfortable expression behind a layer of anger, so he folds his hands over his belt, mutters a brief, “Yes, sire,” and waits for Arthur to begin moving before falling into step behind him.

Arthur doesn’t look back, but Merlin does, staring down at the writhing, wailing crowd with eyes that feel unbearably heavy. There are no guards left on the balcony—they’re either protecting Uther or down in the courtyard in an effort to restore order—and Merlin knows he has to do _something_. He won’t let the people of Camelot suffer this injustice because he couldn’t control his magic.

But what can he do? Dousing the lights once more won’t make a difference.

Thunder growls in the distance, and Merlin’s magic responds without prompting to reach up toward the ominous low clouds and tug the billowing gray masses even closer to the rising castle spires. Tendrils of his magic coax gossamer strands of condensation to the ground, and rain begins to pepper those hemmed into the square.

Merlin hopes no one will notice that the rain seems to be mostly avoiding anyone not wearing mail and the Pendragon crest.

Satisfied that the guards will now rush the interrogations along—no one wishes to prolong an unpleasant task when it rains—he turns his back on the courtyard and shadows Arthur through dry marble hallways.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does this chapter contain an unresolved cliffhanger? It's more likely than you think.

Cool air follows Merlin as he walks toward Camelot’s north gate, breathing against his hairline in unexpected puffs that make his ears tingle and shoulders bunch up beneath the useless protection of his coat. With each inhale, he expects another death to send his entire world reeling, and with every second that passes free from assault, the tension in his body increases. His magic is hot inside his chest and more active than it’s been in weeks.

The guards on duty nod to him as he approaches but don’t speak as he passes through the high arch. He’s ventured into the woods at strange times often enough that the guards know better than to strike up a conversation with him unless he’s the one to initiate it, and he’s in no mood to talk, not when he’s slowly being smothered by the anxiety of not knowing when he’ll be overcome by grief once more.

Night birds trill quietly in their havens among the leaves above his head as he weaves his way off the wide dirt road and into the underbrush—what little underbrush there is here. During the first year of Arthur’s rule, there were numerous attacks on supply caravans by mercenaries hired by the surrounding kingdoms, which were repelled by a combination of increased patrols outside the city and the underbrush along the road being trimmed down at least thirty feet into the forest on both sides of the main roads to limit the effectiveness of ambushes. They still happen but with less frequency and success.

The rustle of leaves as a faint breeze winds an untraceable path through the trees is normally enough to coax whatever worries Merlin is carrying out of him in degrees so delicate he hardly notices their soothing properties, but tonight it’s not enough. He knew it wouldn’t be when he slipped past a snoring Gaius, so he’s not disappointed. Much. There’s still a sliver of him quietly pleading for the tranquility of the forest around him to sink into his being and smooth away his concerns, but it’s left disappointed, even when a wide-eyed doe lifts her head, leaves dangling from the corner of her mouth, to watch him pass before she returns to her grazing.

He knows he won’t find peace until he attempts to fix the imbalance that’s become a constant drag on his magic.

He enters a small clearing dotted with evening primrose and stops to breathe in their faint, sweet scent. Golden motes of magic flicker in his peripheral, and when they brighten, he knows this is the spot.

The cool draft continues to cling to his neck like a wet scarf he can’t untie and toss aside to dry in front of the fire for a few hours, even though that’s all he wants to do.

Resisting the urge to rub under his collar again, Merlin spots a wide, flat rock in the corner of the clearing and settles himself on it cross-legged. He clasps his hands together and then separates them in favor of rubbing his palms on his trousers and glancing around the edge of the tree line to double check for unfriendly eyes. He has that itch of being watched between his shoulder-blades and in his temples, but a quick, shallow sweep of magic—he doesn’t dare risk anything more; even now he can feel his magic being tugged... north, definitely north—around the clearing reveals no presences.

Perhaps the deer is following him. It wouldn’t be the first time; most woodland creatures seem to be attracted to him, which leads to frustration on both his and Arthur’s parts whenever they’re not hunting.

The itch settles into a dull, almost-not-there, feather-light tickle. Whoever or whatever was watching him is moving away, but Merlin waits another few minutes, leaning back on his elbows and watching the clouds slip like an ever-changing gossamer veil around the brilliant light of the stars, until the sensation fades completely.

Then he waits another few minutes... just to be safe.

Once he’s certain he’s alone, he sits up and closes his eyes, reaching inside for the pulsing sphere of glowing magic that always warms his chest even when his nose and fingers and toes have lost all feeling. Strands of malleable magic twine over and under and around each other, following his bloodstream and saturating his body until all he can taste is the deep, pure waters of the earth, all he can smell is the richest tilled soil, all he can hear is the lulling hum of magic weaving itself through every living being on land and sea.

But there’s a black patch in the fabric of the world, a stigma darker and oilier than any stain Arthur’s inkwell, thrown in a fit of temper, has ever left.

Merlin takes a steadying breath, presses his palms into the gritty surface of the rock, and extends a filament of magic across the distance, slowly, because the patch seems to be drawing magic toward it. Not people or animals—he would sense the relocation of that many living beings—but magic itself is shifting, mostly no faster than the growth of the mountains.

But the closer Merlin’s magic gets to the darkness, the faster it moves, until it’s a current rushing from his body, swirling and illuminating a golden path through toward the heart of the unnatural darkness.

Gasping for breath, Merlin cuts off his connection, watching with eyes tingling behind their lids as the gold lingers, burning brightly for a crowded handful of seconds before dimming. But it doesn’t vanish, and that gives him an idea.

Any created emptiness can be filled again, and he’s the ideal person to handle such a task, so he repositions himself so that he’s on the ground, shoulders braced against the rock and hands flat on the cropped, prickly grass. The blooming primrose is sweeter now, more intense, or perhaps his sense of smell has sharpened. That sometimes happens after using magic.

Once he’s grounded, he closes his eyes again and exhales slowly until no air remains in his lungs, and then reaches out to the magic around him. Warmth tingles through his fingertips and up his arms, pulses in his chest like the clearing is becoming one with his heartbeat—or maybe he’s becoming one with first the forest and then the wider world around him. Maybe it’s both; all he knows is the whisper of breath through delicate leaves, the thrum of power in the hollow of his chest, traveling like rivers underground and overground away from him, toward him, an ebb and flow that’s existed beyond time unremembered.

Except the pattern has shifted, a deviation in the natural way unlike anything he’s ever experienced before. This time he approaches the blemish with more caution, feeling out the edges of it. The sheer width of the anomaly is startling—there’s no way this developed overnight or even over recent weeks. It’s a shadowy monolith, a vein of black ore winding through the bedrock of the world, and it’s creeping ever closer to the heart of Camelot.

Long experience has taught Merlin this is the sort of threat that’s best dealt with before anyone else can turn it into a nightmare bogged down by politics and prejudices, so he takes a long breath that’s sweet with clover, rich with loamy decay, bright with moonbeams—and plunges into the center of the darkness.

It’s _cold_.

Not just cold, it’s _dead_, devoid of anything even remotely approximating life, wrong in a way so fundamental that he should be heaving over his boots, and though he hasn’t, he might yet—now that he’s opened himself to it, his magic is gushing out of him with such incredible force and speed that he’s certain he’s going to be turned inside out, flesh become magical entity, drained dry of everything that makes him Merlin—makes him _Emrys_.

Except Emrys _is_ magic, so he gathers himself together, physically, mentally, magically, and he opens himself wider, allows the darkness to drink of the golden sun he’s nurtured within himself for so long. And like the sun, it’s blinding, brilliant and majestic and furious, an inferno with waves of inescapable heat tearing through him, each stronger than the last as his magic rages forward to fill the pervading emptiness.

But the giving of his magic doesn’t seem to be making a difference. Void indeed—so far it’s taken every drop of magic he’s been able to provide and still it’s sucking at him, a dark, angry maw that shows no sign of brightening, of filling, of healing. It’s still a rend in the fabric of reality, a gaping wound where there shouldn’t be one, an absence fueled by death and mended by the return of magic, and yet...

His chest feels like it’s cracking open as his magic forces its way out of him; fire laps at his skin, sinks flaming teeth into his spine, shrivels his thoughts up from rational understanding to base instinct, and that instinct screams _run_.

If this is even close to what it’s like to be burned at the stake, then he erred—catastrophically failed his people—by not rescuing them, for letting first Uther and now Arthur inflict such imaginable pain on people whose only crime was and is being born with a sensitivity to magic. It’s unjust, it’s evil, it’s going to _change_.

His magic is still bleeding away, hemorrhaging from an open wound he can’t close even when he tries, and that’s when he knows he’s in trouble. The void knows nothing but take, take, _take_, dispassionately and greedily devouring its way to the core of his being, and he can’t stop it, can’t pull back. All he can do is draw from the magic that exists around him, let it sear through the liquefying conduit of his flesh and blood and bone so it can drag more of him north, deeper and deeper inside the black.

Somewhere is a sound, vague but persistent: it might be a dull ringing in his ears, it might be a faraway scream, it might be the world coming to an end. He doesn’t know, doesn’t much care—the agony of turning incandescent has become his whole world, gold unspooling into white behind his eyes, white boiling away to red as his magic rips free of his flesh, riving him into pieces, _destroying him_.

There is no Merlin, is no Emrys—there is only the tide surging away from the husk of his mortal form to fill the void.

_No!_

Fresh magic blooms somewhere nearby in the most enticing of manners, and he reaches for it before he can think, before it can occur to him that he recognizes it, a faint stirring in the back of his heavy skull, but it doesn’t matter because it’s already too late. This new magic, familiar magic, dangerous magic, is bright and cold and _furious_, plunging through the heart of him like a spear of ice, splintering the air inside his lungs, but even that isn’t why he can’t breathe.

This magic is _Mordred__’s_.

And he’s a threat so much closer to home, silent poison nestled in the very heart of Camelot, capable of striking Arthur down whenever he desires—but for one obstacle.

With a roar like dragonfire ripping from his chest, Merlin brings his magic to bear on the threat he’s permitted existence for too long. Tonight—tonight this ends.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention that as of the last chapter, these snippet scenes take place some undetermined time after 5x02 but before the rest of the season, as this was intended to be a full-blown AU.

Mordred’s eyes flash, and Merlin’s entire body jerks forward, ready to do whatever it takes to stop him, but he does _nothing_.

Mordred bares his teeth in a silent snarl. “See? You _don__’t trust me_.”

“Of course I don’t,” Merlin snaps, frustrated that Mordred has him so twitchy. “You _threatened_ me!”

“That was many years ago! I was young, naive, angry that you were helping Uther’s knights capture and kill your own kin.” Mordred takes a deep breath, visibly restraining himself. “I admit that I am still upset that you didn’t take a stand for the lives of the druids, but I do understand now why you didn’t.”

Merlin snorts. “Do you?”

“I do. Your need to help Arthur claim the throne for your own overwhelmed any other desires you might have had.”

“And you wonder why I don’t trust you,” Merlin says through gritted teeth. “This has never been about Arthur claiming the throne—it’s far more important that he’s a good _man_ than the king of Camelot.”

“And Arthur is both. I have visited many lands over the last few years, Emrys, and although some are tolerant or even sometimes reverent toward our kind, there are no kingdoms with a leader as dearly loved or respected as Camelot.” Mordred steps forward, eyes beseeching. “Don’t you see? If you can’t trust Arthur to hear us out and treat us with fairness, there is _no one_ you can trust.”

“No.” One hand tugging at his hair, Merlin spins around to pace along the length of the wall. “No, you don’t understand. You have no idea what Arthur’s experiences with magic have been like. I’ve never seen anyone betrayed so many times before.”

Mordred’s voice is cool when he says, “Such is the life of a king.”

“It shouldn’t be,” Merlin snaps, visions of fire and blood dancing in front of his eyes before he whirls to stalk toward the younger man. “If I must continue this charade of a lowly servant to spare Arthur the pain of yet another betrayal, I will, no questions asked.” He stops and glares down at the shorter knight, lowering his voice until it thrums in his ears and his chest. “And I will not allow others to betray him. Not again.”

Mordred doesn’t flinch, but his eyes glint and his nostrils flare. “I don’t understand why you refuse to trust me,” he says, and for the first time Merlin hears a seething undertone to his words. “I have done _everything_ I possibly can to earn your trust, have respected your demands to turn a blind eye to the continued oppression of our kin, allowed Arthur to remain ignorant of the suffering of his subjects, I even saved your _life_, and yet you still scorn me at every opportunity.” Leather creaks as he clenches both hands into fists. “What more must I do for you to begin to trust me?”

Arthur’s dead eyes stare into Merlin’s, and words burst from Merlin’s mouth without thought. “I won’t trust you until you’re dead, Mordred, so you can begin by killing yourself!”

* * *

The silence is so shrill it almost overpowers the metallic ring of a sword striking the stone.

The door clicks shut behind Mordred, and Arthur pivots to glare at Merlin. “What was that all about?”

“Sire?” Merlin’s perfectly confused face confirms Arthur’s suspicions, and he stalks forward. The time for games is past.

“You.” He shoves his finger in the space between Merlin’s eyes and nose, holds it there long enough for Merlin to become uncomfortable before pointing at the door. “Mordred.”

Merlin swallows, but his eyes gleam as he follows Arthur’s finger to the door before returning to his face. “I’m glad you can tell us apart, sire.”

“_Don__’t_ avoid the question, Merlin,” he snaps. “You and Mordred have been at each other’s throats in the most passive-aggressive way I’ve ever seen two people interact for days on end now, and I want to know _why_.”

“There’s nothing wrong between us, Arthur,” he insists with an irritated audacity that Arthur would appreciate under any other circumstances, but now it’s the blunt knife that rips a ragged hole in his fraying patience.

His fingers find Merlin’s bicep, and he yanks him around to snarl “I am _sick_ of you lying to me, Merlin!” in his face.

“I’m not ly—”

Irritation explodes with an icy snap into rage. With a wordless yell of frustration, he shoves Merlin into the wall back first and pins him with an arm across his chest, ignoring the sharp sound of surprise—not a cry of pain, definitely not—that’s wrenched from Merlin’s throat as Arthur pins one of his wrists—so thin—to the stone with his free hand.

As expected, Merlin pushes back; warm fingers slide between their chests and circle Arthur’s wrist. “Arth—”

“No,” Arthur says, punctuating the words with every drop of frigid spite he possesses, “_don__’t_ speak unless you’re going to tell me the _absolute_ truth.” And it’s too easy to use his superior weight and training to force the wriggling body to submit: one well-positioned knee traps his servant’s legs, and more pressure against his sternum holds him tight against the wall.

Wide, disbelieving eyes stare at him. “Arthur, you cannot be seri—”

“You’ll see just how serious I am if you don’t begin talking _right now_, you idiot,” he growls, tightening his grip around Merlin’s wrist because this is _bloody_ serious and if some physical force is what it takes for his fool servant to begin treating it with the respect it deserves, so be it.

“I...” Merlin trails off on his own, dropping his chin and tilting his head to study where Arthur’s hand is still forcing his shoulder against the wall; he remains like that for several long seconds before slowly returning his gaze to Arthur’s, and something cold and ugly lands heavy in Arthur’s stomach as he’s thrown into a memory: he was fourteen and Sir Eric, the knight who was training him in moderately difficult sword combat, could have disarmed him with hardly a thought—and they both knew it—but didn’t; and he’s remembering this because Merlin—his _servant_, a man with no power of any kind to speak of—has the same look in his eyes right now as Sir Eric always did whenever Arthur left himself wide open.

Another memory hits, this one driving the breath from his lungs.

_“I can take you apart with one blow.”_

_“I can take you apart with less than that.”_

What if he wasn’t joking?

Rapid puffs of air break over his face, and he doesn’t know if it’s Merlin who’s panting or himself and their close proximity, noses a palm’s breadth apart, is providing a surface for the air to bounce off of.

Perhaps both.

Merlin’s free hand is still around his wrist, but it might as well be around his throat because Arthur _can__’t breathe_. Fear, actual, honest fear, skitters through his veins when he realizes that not once since he pinned him as Merlin pushed back—struggled, yes, but not _pushed_, so either he trusts Arthur not to hurt him or he knows he’s able to escape whenever he wants.

Arthur’s not sure whether he should be touched at his servant’s trust or scared beyond reason that _Merlin_ thinks he can defeat him: the man who’s been trained to inherit the throne since birth and has the skills to back him up.

He’s not sure how it happened (_scared, he__’s scared scared scared_), but he’s leaning on Merlin with most of his weight now, and Merlin still isn’t protesting, isn’t saying anything.

“Speak up,” Arthur growls. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Merlin doesn’t take this opportunity, but this is it: their friendship won’t be the same anymore, which leaves him with a hollow ache inside his heart that’s already expanding to engulf the rest of his chest, but it’s not hollow enough because it _hurts_.

“Arthur, wait, you have to trust me—”

“I _have_ trusted you, Merlin, for ten years, and I’m beginning to wonder if that trust was completely misplaced.”

“No, you don’t understand—there are things going on that you aren’t aware of—”

“Are there, now? Provide one good example and maybe I’ll—”

A choked moan stutters past Merlin’s lips, and he goes limp beneath Arthur’s hands, head nearly colliding with Arthur’s shoulder as it falls forward.

“Really, Merlin?” Arthur rolls his eyes at his servant’s pitiful attempt to generate sympathy. “You are such a _girl_—”

Heat flares beneath Arthur’s hands, burning the pads of his fingers and his palms; then it races through his arms and up his neck and he has the most peculiar but distinct impression that there’s molten gold running alongside his blood before it reaches his head.

Moments later, it’s followed by an inhuman cry of “_Emrys_!”

The shriek is so pained and grief-stricken that it rips his mind in two. He staggers away from Merlin, and although his hand’s still fisted in Merlin’s tunic, he has no idea if he drags Merlin down or if it happens the other way; regardless, they both end up sprawled on the floor.

Dimly, Arthur is aware that the stone is no longer freezing. In fact, it’s uncomfortably hot against his cheek.

_What the _hell _was that_?

Not his most eloquent thought ever, but it’s the best he can manage once the shock wears off enough for him to string more than two words together.

Grunting out what is supposed to be his servant’s name but comes out more like “Mer’nn?”, he manages to roll over enough to see Merlin’s face not four hands away and staring back at him, but his eyes are glassy and his lips the gray of death.

Adrenaline spikes Arthur’s blood, launching him upright; he’s horrifyingly clumsy as he scrambles to his hands and knees, but there’s no one but Merlin to see so he has no reason to be ashamed.

He grasps the thin shoulders and rolls him onto his back. “Merlin!” He receives no response, and his fingers are already shoving Merlin’s scarf down from where it’s bunched up under his jaw so he can jam his fingers—too hard—into the pale flesh.

_Tha...thump... tha...thump... tha...thump... tha-thump... tha-thump..._

Arthur exhales and braces himself against the floor with one hand, relief a salve to the burn still licking away at his heart, and whispers a quick prayer of thanks because Merlin’s heartbeat is getting stronger. Of course he’s not dead. _Of course_ he’s not dead—now Arthur sees that Merlin’s brow and jaw and the stretched, strained muscles in his throat are tight with pain and his chest is shuddering with uneven breaths that sound almost as distressing as they look.

“Breathe, Merlin.” It’s a command in his head, but his heart and his mouth don’t agree and, yeah, he’s asking, pleading, because he’s not sure what else to do.

Merlin sucks in a breath that’s deeper than the others; his eyelids twitch, and for one second Arthur thinks he sees light swirling in the depths of his eyes, but then Merlin blinks and it’s gone, replaced by an overwhelming sadness that Arthur can still feel crushing his chest, and this is nothing more than the aftereffects of... whatever that was.

“You with me, Merlin?” he asks, peering into Merlin’s mostly focused eyes as he grips Merlin’s shoulder—then snatches his hand away when Merlin flinches and twists to roll away from him, scrambling to his knees and lifting his open palm toward Arthur in a clear warning not to come any closer.

Arthur shifts his weight to his heels, to his toes, repeats a few times so he doesn’t look like he was going to reach for Merlin.

He’s not fooling Merlin, and he’s not fooling himself.


	5. Chapter 5

Merlin can’t decide what he hates more: when Arthur rides into a trap, or when Arthur rides in _knowing_ it’s a trap.

* * *

“Arthur, we must stop!”

Merlin’s not surprised when the king gives no sign he’s heard him. It’s entirely possible that the deluge is pummeling Merlin’s words into the ground before they have a chance to reach Arthur, who’s—still—riding three horse lengths ahead of Leon.

Then again, he could be ignoring Merlin. Yes, that seems more likely, especially considering Arthur’s been ignoring everyone for the better part of a week.

Everyone with a whit of reason, at least.

Which is why Merlin and a group of knights are following Arthur through the worst natural rainstorm—

Lightning strikes the side of the mountain less than a league to the right with an almighty _boom_!

—worst natural _thunder_storm Camelot’s seen in almost seven years.

Of course.

“Does Arthur really think we can reach Halwin before nightfall in this weather?”

Gwaine’s voice is unusually hushed, and he remains staring straight ahead, even when Merlin, wincing as his spine protests, turns to look at him. They’ve been riding since dawn, and the two breaks they’ve taken were for the benefit of the horses, not the men.

“I don’t know,” Merlin admits softly. He watches Arthur’s back—so stiff Merlin knows he’ll find a sword meshed into the mail next time he cleans it—as the king leads them down a narrow, rocky trail. He’s hardly moving atop his horse, and Merlin has a moment of pity for the horse because it can’t be comfortable to have something so rigid on its back. “Arthur tends to take things like this personally.”

“Can you blame him?” Percival asks from his position in line behind Merlin. “I’d be more concerned about the state of our kingdom if he allowed the murder of innocent children to pass unchallenged.”

“But it’s not a challenge,” Merlin protests, sweeping a hand across his brow to remove the water running into his eyes as he glares at the back of Arthur’s head. “It’s a _trap_. How can Arthur hope to defeat a sorcerer—and a deranged one at that—without magic on his side?”

Leon’s cape twitches, and he turns back to Merlin, his lips pursed. Old, sour fear pushes against the back of Merlin’s throat, but he forces it down. Three or four years ago he would have ducked his head, made a joke to deflect any potential suspicion, but he’s older now, wiser, more powerful, and he has the trust of each knight riding today. If they want to see Albion united, they’re going to have to be able to hear _magic_ without hackles rising and swords being drawn.

Despite the sheets of water falling between them, Leon’s gaze is piercing. “Are you implying that Arthur needs to find a sorcerer who is willing to help us defeat Gilli?”

_If I am?_ The words settle on the tip of his tongue, heavy with allusion and full to bursting with the promise of the first of many discussions about magic and how it can and should be used.

Is it now that the change begins?

He glances at Arthur without thinking, and the words—sweet as forbidden fruit—shrivel to ash that chokes the breath from his lungs because Arthur has stopped his horse and is finally looking back at them—at him. There’s murder glinting in his eyes and in the blade-thin set of his lips.

“No,” Merlin says around the delicate, cloying ash clogging his throat. He holds Arthur’s gaze, but it’s hard when the man who’s destined to be the Once and Future King—to be the one who will allow magic to flood a land crying and begging with every leaf and every root and every riverbed stone because the people are no longer being heard for magic to be restored—looks enraged at the mention of what has saved his life so many times there isn’t a reward expensive or grand enough to pay it back. Merlin swallows the need to join in the world’s desperate wail for balance and freedom with practiced difficulty, for it has become harder to ignore the pleading when every fiber in the kingdom seems to be calling out with a voice no one but him can hear, burdening him with their needs. _Please_, he begs the world around him, _grant me a reprieve. I cannot do this forever_. “I just don’t think it’s wise to engage this Gilli when it’s obvious that’s what he wants you to do, Arthur.”

“And what do you want me to do, _Mer_lin? Allow innocent children to die and leave their families to suffer and grieve because their king decided he didn’t have a hope of stopping Gilli before he even tried?”

“Of course not, sire, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“Oh, so you’re suggesting I locate another sorcerer—one that conveniently doesn’t have a single murderous intention toward myself or any of my subjects—and enlist their help in killing one of their kin. Brilliant idea, Merlin.” His lips curl into a sneer so similar to some of the venomous looks Morgana’s given him that Merlin flinches. “While you’re at it, would you like to join the legions of Camelot’s enemies, because it’s clear Morgana and Agrivaine weren’t enough.”

Merlin’s too stunned to reply—Arthur’s words slice across his body in cuts that are shallow but, given time, will drain him of blood and life. Arthur turns away and kicks his horse into a gallop before Merlin can find words that won’t betray who and what he is.

_What would you say if you knew I already am one of Camelot__’s enemies_? he wonders as he nudges his horse to follow, avoiding the stares of the knights.

It’s not the first time he’s wondered, it won’t be the last time, and it doesn’t stop the vision of flames crackling around the edges of his vision, rimming the leaves and branches and rocks in flickering, devouring light.

Merlin swallows and keeps his eyes fixed firmly between his horse’s ears. The flames will vanish in their own time. They always do.

* * *

The first time Merlin’s mare stumbles, he doesn’t say anything. The trail they’re following is rocky; it’s possible she has a stone lodged in one of her hooves or she slipped.

He knows neither is true.

He waits until there’s another roll of thunder to mutter a quick spell granting the horses a burst of strength, then sags when most of the energy instead wisps away into the starved land.

“Arthur’s going to kill the horses if he doesn’t stop,” Gwaine growls between equally upset rumbles of thunder. The storm’s outpaced them, but it’s still raining.

Merlin shivers inside his soaked jacket and nods, lips too numb to speak. There hasn’t been any sign of the sun all day, but at least before it set behind the mountain, some dregs of its warmth were tangible. Now mist clouds from the mouths of men and the nostrils of horses alike in great plumes that remind Merlin of the smoke that wreathes around Klinghara when he’s angry. What he wouldn’t give to be curled up inside a cave warmed with dragonfire, heat tingling the tips of his fingers and toes and spreading like a cozy blush across his cheeks.

Then his mare stumbles again, flinging him forward into the saddle; he yelps as his forehead collides with her neck when she throws her head up with a sharp neigh. Only clamping his legs and tangling his fingers in the long, slippery mane save him from pitching over her ears.

“Stop!” Gwaine bellows, at the same time checking his own horse and leaning over to grab Merlin’s arm, yanking him back into the saddle. “Merlin, are you all right?”

“Fine! I’m fine,” he snaps, jerking his arm free to rein the mare to a stop. And he is, but his horse isn’t—he doesn’t need magic to know that: her head’s dropped, and she’s putting no weight on her off foreleg.

“Merlin, she’s injured.”

“I know.” With legs so stiff he can barely move them, Merlin kicks free of the stirrups and dismounts, biting back a grunt when cold pain shoots up from the soles of his feet through his calves, knees, thighs, and into his hips. Teeth grit, he hands her reins to Gwaine and forces himself to bend down, running his hand down her sweat-lathered shoulder and leg until he reaches her knee. Already the joint is hotter than the rest of her steaming body, and there’s tension growing beneath the skin as the torn flesh begins to inflame.

“Merlin, what _have_ you done now?” Arthur asks in the lofty tone he only adopts when he wants to conceal some other, weaker, emotion.

“Strained knee,” Merlin says, and he knows it isn’t an answer, but he’s not getting into an argument over whose fault this is (because it’s Arthur’s and _if you__’d only listened to me, you stupid prat, we wouldn’t be in this situation_). He stands, one hand on his horse’s side, which is still heaving with shuddering breaths, in case his legs decide to give out—a real possibility: he hasn’t been this sore in months. “There’s no way she can go on.”

Arthur’s features are a shadowy blur in the twilight, but there’s no disguising his displeasure when he nods once. “Agreed. Elyan!”

“Sire?”

“Your father was a blacksmith, so you’re the most qualified here to treat this injury, yes?”

Elyan hesitates, only the whites of his eyes visible as he surveys the knights around them before studying the trembling mare. “You flatter me, sire, but, yes, I believe I can treat this.”

“Excellent. Sir Hector, you’ll stay with him—give your horse to Merlin.”

Merlin grabs his saddlebags, stuffed twice as full by one over-worrying Gaius than Merlin’s knotted shoulders would prefer, and takes a moment to rub around his mare’s ears, dipping his head until his eyes are hidden and whispering a quick spell in a mostly failed attempt to heal some of the damage. He’s always been rubbish at healing spells. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, letting her rest her forehead against his jacket, blinking sluggishly, before giving her one last pat, guilt weighing heavily on his heart as he hands the reins to Elyan, who crouches down and runs gentle fingers over the injured limb.

“Don’t follow us to Halwin if you think it will cause her more damage,” Arthur says, waving a leather-covered hand in the direction of the injured mare.

“Now you’re worried?” Merlin mutters, as he settles the saddlebags on his new mount, a tall, rangy stallion with a temper to match its fiery chestnut coat. The stallion nips his arm, teeth grazing skin, and Merlin flicks his muzzle with a sharp reprimand. Snorting, the stallion backs down.

Arthur’s glare is colder than normal, but that’s all the acknowledgment he gives Merlin’s remark. “Once she’s able to move, take her to the nearest village and find someone to care for her and return to Camelot. We’ll send someone to fetch her once she’s healed.”

“It shall be done, sire.” Elyan dips into a short bow, then coaxes the limping mare to the side of the trail to allow the rest of the group to pass.

A terse command from Arthur sets the group in motion, but he seems to have learned his lesson because he pushes them no faster than a steady trot, and Merlin is relieved, not only on behalf of the horses’ physical health but because he doesn’t have to extend his magic to them anymore, mostly futile with the way the starved land keeps siphoning it away.

Merlin’s stallion has the longest stride and isn’t as winded as the other horses, so it’s not long before Merlin finds himself almost abreast of Arthur. Most of the tension in the king’s body has been replaced by weariness, and although he doesn’t look at Merlin, he doesn’t order to be left alone, so Merlin takes this as an invitation to begin speaking.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do when we reach Halwin?”

He can’t hear Arthur’s sigh over the hooves clattering across pebbles, but he knows it happens.

“I’ll need to inspect the land for myself once we arrive. A village at the base of a mountain must have access to at least a few caves. We can send the villagers in there—it will make hiding and, if it comes down to it, defending them easier.”

Merlin takes a deep breath. He needs to balance this just right. “You do have another option.”

Arthur snorts. “What? Asking the druids for help?”

“They will help you if you ask it of them.”

“They’re a peaceful people. If they wanted to stop Gilli, they could have done so already. That’s why we’re riding out to help them, remember?”

“He holds their children hostage—they’re probably too scared to attempt fighting back.” Merlin closes his lips over the frightening prospect that Gilli might be too powerful for even an entire village of druids to defeat. “Besides, magic is still technically outlawed, and the druids aren’t known for their physical prowess. What are they supposed to do?”

“Technically still outlawed,” Arthur repeats. “You’d think they’d be willing to break the law in order to save their children.”

A tingle of hope shoots down Merlin’s spine, warming him like a kindling fire, and he straightens, swallows hard. “Are you saying the lives of the druids’ children—children with magic—are more important than your laws?”

“You mean my father’s laws,” Arthur says with no small amount of bitterness.

Merlin doesn’t realize how tight his body has become until his stallion throws a swift buck without breaking stride, and only a swift diversion of attention keeps him from losing his seat. He blows out a long breath, fighting to release some of the tension coiled in his body. His voice still wavers when he says, “It sounds like you don’t agree with him.”

“I used to.”

“And now?” Merlin asks through a throat so tight he has to choke the words out.

Arthur’s head swivels toward him, across which shadows flicker erratically for a few seconds before he throws his hand up. Merlin flinches, then berates himself because Arthur’s signaling the company to walk, nothing more. He has no reason to fear Arthur.

“You sound like the answer is important to you,” Arthur notes, studying him with an intensity that’s heavier than the shoulder-bowing fear of what awaits them in the village.

Shoving aside all the fears of what Arthur may think of him, Merlin meets his gaze squarely and says, “What if it is?”

Arthur’s brow furrows, and Merlin has the urge to lighten the mood by cautioning the king about making faces that might cause wrinkles; and his stomach lurches when he realizes that his first instinct now is deflection whenever magic—and not just magic but his views on magic—is the topic.

Arthur doesn’t speak, and Merlin’s lungs seize because he’s made a _terrible_ mistake, been too bold, and now Arthur’s going to find out, and this definitely wasn’t supposed to be how Arthur found out—he was supposed to save his life or Gwen’s life or the entire Round Table or all of Camelot—

“Sometimes, Merlin, I don’t know what to make of you,” Arthur says, voice torn between amusement, confusion, and sarcasm. “You pick the strangest topics to get emotional over.”

There’s a shrewdness lurking in Arthur’s eyes that chases any desire to reply from the heart off the surface of Merlin’s tongue. The weight of too many secrets, too many years living in mortal fear, drag upon every inch of his body, his mind, his spirit, and it’s suddenly impossible to hold Arthur’s gaze. He’s fiddling with his stallion’s mane—why is he doing that?—and curls his hands into fists around the reins. “I’m not emotional—” but, _fey_, the shiver around his words betrays him, and Arthur’s looking at him with that cold calculation again, and why is that so frightening?

Silence falls; only the trees and the horses dare breach the silence as the seconds pass. Now the knights are watching them—him—their stares tightening like nets around him, binding his chest and his throat and his thoughts until he’s terrified a single movement will unravel ten years’ worth of misdirection and lies, leaving him to kneel in their shattered remains.

Tension crackles in the air between them. After what must be an eternity, Arthur blinks, once, twice; then leans back, shoulders softening, and Merlin can breathe again. “Of course you’re not, Merlin—only girls get emotional.”

It’s an ugly out—Arthur hasn’t used that insult in years—but Merlin snatches it with the desperation of a starving man led before a feast. “So you’re saying I’m not a girl?”

“A girl? Never.” After one more brief but intense look, Arthur kicks his horse into a canter, then tosses, “But always a girl’s petticoat,” over his shoulder.

“Better than an egotistical clotpole of a prat,” Merlin snaps, without anger but still more sarcastic than he intended. His horse leaps after Arthur’s without prompting.

“Very creative, _Mer_lin. I must remember to ensure the scribes write down such a genius use of language—we can’t have the credit for such masterful statements going to anyone but you.”

“At least I’ll never be remembered as the king of prats.”

“It’s how I’ll always remember you,” Gwaine calls out. He probably thinks he’s being helpful.

“Provided you haven’t burned your memory away with ale,” Arthur retorts.

Gwaine’s laughter rings through the chill air, and it heartens Merlin to know he has someone who will always have his back nearby.


End file.
